


Touch

by frozen_delight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed Dean, First Time, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam never realized just how much he depended on Dean’s touch until it was taken away from him.</p>
<p>Written for the spn_masquerade prompt: <em>Sam has a kink for Dean wearing his clothes. Can also throw in some size kink.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Now it's official - I have an unhealthy obsession with writing about miscommunications between grown men, cooking and doing the laundry. I'm curiously fine with that.
> 
> Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

Winchesters weren’t exactly a touchy-feely bunch. Mostly they hugged and patted each other reassuringly in life-threatening situations, and if they managed to get into those more often than your average Joe, that still didn’t amount to a particularly impressive hugging quota. In fact, Sam was pretty sure he could count the number of times Dad had hugged him on the fingers of one hand. With Dean, the number of hugs and casual touches was understandably higher, but not something worthy of New York Times coverage either.  
  
Which was why Sam never even realized just how much he depended on Dean’s touch until it was taken away from him.  
  
A flash of green light. Reaching out, trying to drag Dean out of the blast range. A cry of agony. Dean on the ground, pale and still—  
  
As far as last touches went, this one ranked high up among ‘most depressing’.  
  
As always, it had begun with a hunt. Add the typical Winchester share of bad luck into the mix and this was what you got: The witch they’d hunted down cast a spell on Dean with her dying breath; a spell which made Dean suffer indescribable pain to the point of blacking out at the hands of the next person who touched him. And of course in trying to save Dean, said next person happened to be none other than Sam.  
  
Probably they should have been grateful about that, since Dean could still go out to diners and talk to witnesses without Sam having to watch him like a hawk (or a creep!), ready to jump whoever got too close to his brother.  
  
Still, being the only person in the whole damn universe who couldn’t touch Dean and whom Dean couldn’t touch sucked. Massively.  
  
Deprived of Dean’s touch, it dawned on Sam that a large part of his day-to-day happiness was tied to Dean’s knuckles grazing his as he handed him a beer, Dean’s hand clapping his shoulder after a job well done, Dean’s right index finger jabbing between his ribs whenever they fought over whose turn it was to do the laundry, or Dean’s calloused palm gently cradling his face and brushing his hair out of his eyes when he checked Sam for injuries.  
  
Now he had to watch how Dean leaned into every pretty waitress who placed a flirtatious hand on his biceps, how Dean patted the random dudes he’d hustled on the back, half thank-you, half consolation prize, and how Dean wrapped his arms around Cas and their few remaining other friends every time they met, all but swallowing them up in his embrace; none of them realizing what a precious gift it was to have Dean’s touch.  
  
Meanwhile, all Sam could do was run his fingers obsessively over the table top Dean’s hand had trailed over the previous moment, or bury his nose in the research book Dean had perused, and pretend it was an adequate substitute for the real deal.  
  
(And, most importantly, pretend that his nights weren’t haunted by images of Dean’s hands and glistening skin.)  
  
After three weeks of fruitless search for a cure, Sam was cranky from lack of sleep and ready to climb the walls of the bunker’s library.  
  
All they’d found out so far was that the curse didn’t belong to the family of minor curses which wore off after a couple of days, and that it softened the effects somewhat if they didn’t have skin-to-skin contact. Meaning that Dean didn’t pass out in pain when Sam laid his gloved hand over the multiple layers of clothes protecting Dean’s chest, though his face still turned an ugly tinge of green and he spent the rest of the afternoon throwing up in the bathroom, which couldn’t really be considered such a great improvement— _goddammit!_  
  
When Sam hurled the spellbook he’d been poring over across the room with a cry of frustration Dean looked up.  
  
“Good library manners, Sammy,” he commented drily, but his brows were furrowed in concern.  
  
Since Sam hadn’t slept properly for three days straight, he couldn’t be held accountable for the words that left his mouth before he could rein them back in, “I really, really need to touch you.”  
  
“Not the first time a girl's said that to me.” Dean smirked. “You wanna blow a flower across my belly like Josh Hartnett?”  
  
Sam blushed despite himself. “No.” He glared at his brother, too irritated and exhausted to pick up on the fact that Dean’s admission of having seen _40 Days and 40 Nights_ could be valuable teasing and blackmail material in the future. “I know it’s news to you, but not everything is about getting you off.”  
  
The words came out sharper than Sam intended and Dean flinched as though Sam had slapped him— _touched_ him, Sam mentally corrected himself with no small amount of bitterness.  
  
“Sorry.” Sam hated himself a little for how guilty Dean looked. After all, this wasn’t Dean’s fault. “You can touch me, you know,” Dean added after a moment. He stretched his arm out on the table in an open invitation.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It won’t kill me.”  
  
“But it will hurt you.”  
  
“Last time wasn’t so bad.”  
  
“You mean that time you nearly puked out your guts? Thanks, I’ll pass.”  
  
Dean drew back his arm and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”  
  
Seeing how hard his brother tried not to let his relief show made Sam want to smash something. He fled to the shooting range before that something turned out to be Dean.  
  
After he’d emptied three mags into his target, Sam felt marginally calmer. Maybe even calm enough to attempt sleep.  
  
He turned to leave when the sight of Dean’s grey hoodie further down the range stopped him short. Dean had been wearing it only that morning at breakfast. The realization that Dean must be just as frustrated with the status quo barely registered over the blinding need to slip it on.  
  
It was a little too short, especially the sleeves, and it hugged his chest almost tightly enough to be called ‘constricting’ rather than ‘snug’, but Sam let out a sigh of relief once he’d zipped it closed all the same. He shut his eyes, ran his hands over the soft, worn fabric, inhaled the scent of gun and motor oil, onions and sweat. The prodigal son couldn’t have felt greater comfort when he returned to his home and his father’s forgiving arms than Sam did as he abandoned himself to the fluffy embrace of Dean’s hoodie.  
  
A tranquility he hadn’t known since Dean got cursed settled in on Sam’s mind and bones, and he turned in for the night.  
  
The next morning he woke feeling well-rested and content, slowly blinking himself to awareness as he rubbed a hand over his half-hard cock. It didn’t take him long and soon he— _spilled come all over the front of Dean’s hoodie!_ Shit.  
  
Once he’d regathered his wits and dressed in fresh clothes, Sam crept towards the laundry room, Dean’s soiled hoodie pressed against his chest in a silent accusation.  
  
Of course, it was just his luck that Dean not only sought stress relief in target practice, but also in doing the washing.  
  
“Morn—is that—why do you have my hoodie?” With a scowl Dean snatched the item away from him.  
  
Sam could tell the exact moment Dean figured out why Sam had taking his hoodie on an early trip to the laundry room. Astonishment, disgust and something that might have been big brotherly pride weighed on the corners of Dean’s mouth.  
  
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Sam waved his hand awkwardly at the grey bundle.  
  
“Yeah, well, unless you want me to mess with every single piece of clothing you own, you’d better not do it again.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sam said again.  
  
“No need to go all emo on me, young Skywalker,” Dean said gruffly as he stuffed the hoodie into the drum he’d already loaded and turned on the machine.  
  
Watching the hoodie that had been such a comfort to him disappear in a dull blur of wet fabric, Sam blurted out, “It wasn’t an accident.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up.  
  
“Not the—” Sam made a ‘jerking off’ motion with his right hand “—but that I took it.”  
  
Dean looked nearly as ill at being subjected to this talk as he had when Sam put his gloved hand on his chest, but Sam forced himself to continue. “I miss you. It was the next best thing.”  
  
For a moment, Sam felt sure that Dean would laugh at him. But then his shoulders slumped and he sighed softly. “So basically you won’t freak out on me till we find a cure for this fucking curse as long as you get to wear some of my clothes?”  
  
Sam nodded.  
  
“Okay, princess.” Dean gave him a wry half-smile. “One condition, though. I get to wear some of yours, too.”  
  
Fierce gratitude rushed through Sam’s veins. He could have kissed Dean.  
  
However, after they’d swapped shirts, Sam’s elation at inhaling Dean’s scent and feeling Dean’s warmth against his skin morphed into fresh agony. Somehow the clothes weren’t the only items that had been traded—Sam’s crazy mind had also exchanged ‘could have kissed’ for ‘want to kiss’ and now he couldn’t switch it back!  
  
Across from him stood Dean, tugging at the too long sleeves of Sam’s shirt and attempting to roll them up. Anyone else in his position would have looked utterly ridiculous, but Dean managed to turn it into something heart-warming and adorable, sexy even.  
  
A jolt sizzled down Sam’s spine.  
  
Objectively, he knew that his brother was very handsome, but he’d never been attracted to him _like that_ , of course not!  
  
Fuck, what was wrong with him?  
  
Maybe he was just confused, turned on by the sight of Dean wearing his clothes because it reminded him of the women who’d thrown on his shirts on the morning after. Yeah, that made sense. It had been ages since the last time he’d gotten laid, after all.  
  
“Sam!” Dean’s voice cut through his perfectly sound rationalizations. “If you get jizz over that shirt I’m gonna strangle you!”  
  
Sam was about to point out that this was a pathetic threat coming from the guy who couldn’t touch Sam without passing out when he saw that Dean’s eyes were riveted on his crotch.  
  
He let his own eyes travel downwards—  
  
_Oh._  
  
The front of his jeans was tented noticeably.  
  
Dreaming about Dean’s hands and accidentally jerking off over his hoodie was one thing, but sporting a boner at the sight of Dean in his shirt was another matter entirely.  
  
“Oh God,” he muttered.  
  
“Don’t think he’s got anything to do with this.” Dean sounded amused.  
  
“Oh God,” Sam repeated. He tried to will away his growing erection with mental pictures of half-rotten shapeshifter corpses, but Dean’s glowing presence made it impossible to focus on anything other than how nicely his shirt emphasized Dean’s muscular frame.  
  
Dean frowned at him. “I thought we agreed that if you get to wear my clothes you don’t freak out on me? _Sam_?”  
  
“I…” Sam bit his lip. “I may not have thought this all the way through.”  
  
Dean laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”  
  
Sam grimaced at him. “Not funny, Dean.”  
  
“Come on, it’s a little funny.”  
  
The giddy little-boy-grin that never failed to make Sam smile appeared on Dean’s face, an all too rare sight these days, and before he knew it, Sam felt the corners of his own mouth tug up in answer. Unfortunately, in a direct deviation from his customary reaction to seeing this particular smile on his brother’s face, Sam’s heart also began to bat wildly against his ribcage.  
  
He was so screwed.  
  
Averting his eyes, Sam said quietly, “It’s really not.”  
  
He could have cried.  
  
“Sam?” Dean’s hand hovered over his arm, his face split open in honest dismay.  
  
Sam recoiled. “Don’t touch me!”  
  
“I will if you don’t tell me what’s the matter,” Dean, ever the emotional blackmailer, growled as he advanced on Sam, backing him against the door until there was no means for Sam to escape without pushing Dean away; and they both knew Sam wouldn’t do that.  
  
Dean raised his hand and held it inches above Sam’s cheek. They also both knew that Dean would have no qualms with following through on his threat.  
  
“Don’t!” Sam tried to shrink away, but Dean's hand followed him.  
  
“Then tell me.”  
  
Sam swallowed.  
  
“Any second now.”  
  
The hand wandered perilously close to his cheek. Sam imagined he could feel the heat radiating from Dean’s skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted brown plaid dangling loosely from Dean’s wrist.  
  
He gasped. “It’s you, okay.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue.  
  
“Oh.” Dean’s hand fell away and he took a step back. With clumsy fingers he tugged at the buttons of his— _Sam’s_ —shirt. “It’s okay. I don’t have to—if it makes you uncomfortable.”  
  
_That’s not what I meant_ , Sam wanted to tell him, but he was too entranced by the spectacle of Dean trying to strip off his shirt.  
  
The steady hands that had never failed Dean in hundreds of confrontations with every kind of evil on the planet lost the fight against the buttons. With an impatient grunt, he pulled the shirt over his head instead. His black tee rode up in the process, revealing a delicious strip of skin underneath.  
  
Sam’s mouth went dry. Try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  
  
Dean looked up at him. “Better?”  
  
That it was a good deal better—or worse, depending on the definition—must have shown plainly on Sam’s face. Dean’s knuckles tightened white around the brown plaid shirt.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
The pinched line of Dean’s mouth finally spurred Sam into action. “Dean, stop, it’s not—I’m attracted to you!”  
  
“What?” Dean’s mouth slackened and he gaped at Sam, eyes wide. Then he collected himself and spoke with a voice so calm and kind it was insulting, “Hey, Sam, it’s okay. I’m sorry this—the curse messed you up so badly. We’ll fix it, don’t worry, we always do.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think it’s the curse.”  
  
“So what,” Dean scoffed, “you’re saying you’ve always had the hots for me? I know I’m a handsome devil, but come on, Sammy, that’s just ridiculous. I’ve lived with you!”  
  
“Yeah, well, only the curse made me realize—but I think it’s always been there somehow.” Sam fixed Dean with a resolute stare. “I don’t think it’s gonna go away, either.”  
  
For a moment, Dean regarded him thoughtfully, lips pursed. Then he nodded, as though to himself. “Okay then.”  
  
“Okay what?”  
  
“Okay let’s do this.”  
  
“But you don’t want this, Dean.”  
  
Dean glared at him. “What I don’t want, is this curse. Why do you think I asked for your shirt? I need you, okay.”  
  
Sam threw him a doubtful look.  
  
A frustrated growl erupted from Dean’s throat. “Christ, Sam, do you actually need me to spell it out? So maybe I don’t know yet if I’m gonna like it when you touch me, but I know sure as hell now that I hate it when you _don’t_. So we should give it a try.”  
  
Trying incest on for size had ‘bad idea’ written all over it. But it paled somewhat next to epically bad decisions like chugging demon blood and trusting Ruby, so Sam smiled at Dean. “Okay then.”  
  
“Good. What are you waiting for, tiger?”  
  
“You mean _now_?”  
  
“’Course.”  
  
“Uh, Dean? In case you’ve forgotten, we can’t actually touch right now.”  
  
Dean chuckled. “Oh Sammy, no wonder you never get any action if you think you need to touch someone to get off!”  
  
“Oh shut it!”  
  
“Nice, Sam, boss me around. Always gets me right in the mood.”

Dean sprawled against the running machine behind him and cocked his head to the side. All mockery drained from his green eyes, giving way to the keen spark of trust, devotion and something like curiosity. “Tell me what to do.”  
  
“Strip,” Sam said in a hoarse voice.  
  
Dean obeyed, stepping out of his clothes with the same smooth, efficient movements Sam knew so well from watching his brother clean his guns or tinker with the Impala’s engine. Then he braced himself against the washing machine and looked at Sam for further instructions, his face calm and open except for the faint pink flush over his cheeks.  
  
The breath caught in the back of Sam’s throat.  
  
Having grown up in such close quarters, they’d always given each other the little privacy they could and never paraded around stark naked in the countless motel rooms they’d shared. Still, there wasn’t a part of Dean’s body Sam hadn’t seen before, and hardly one he hadn’t stitched back together at some point, so the sight of Dean leaning against the washing machine now should have been nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
It was anything but.  
  
Gone was the slender frame of Dean’s youth, when he’d looked like a fragile, prickly flower waiting to be picked. He was at home now in his body, inhabiting every inch of it with playful ease, from the bulky forearms and the broad chest that tapered into firm hips to the muscular thighs and the thick length of his cock between them. He’d always been so strong and brave—hell, he was the strongest and bravest man Sam knew—but now he looked the part too; real, solid, reliable, ready to carry Sam to the ends of the earth.  
  
Sam inhaled sharply. “Touch yourself,” he whispered.  
  
Dean’s eyes flared up and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. In a fluid motion he laid his hand on his chest. While he moved it over his skin in small, languid circles, his pinky toyed with a nipple until it perked up in a sinful shade of red and a soft moan fell from Dean’s shining lips.  
  
Sam gasped and fisted his hand into his straining pants.  
  
Confident and graceful, Dean’s hand shimmied down the flat plane of his stomach.  
  
His eyes tracking the spellbinding descent of Dean’s fingers as they dipped lower and lower still, Sam jacked his dick with one hand while the other scratched across the wooden surface of the door behind him, desperately searching for purchase.  
  
At the first contact of Dean’s fist with the hard length of his cock, Sam let his head fall back against the door with a groan. The movements of his own hand inside his pants faltered momentarily. He gulped, blinked, then mimicked the methodical motions with which his brother stripped his dick, slow at first, gradually building up speed, a weird counter movement to the tumble of the washing drum visible between the obscene stretch of his legs.  
  
He’d heard Dean jerk off often enough in the bathroom—and sometimes in the other motel bed when he thought Sam was asleep—that he knew when Dean hit the rhythm he liked best and also knew that the low, almost pained grunts Dean couldn’t suppress entirely meant he was close.  
  
“Look at me,” he ground out.  
  
Dean’s eyes shot up to his face, fuzzed and blown.  
  
Sam felt like he was drowning, and maybe he wasn’t the only one.  
  
“Fuck, Sam.”  
  
Dean’s hoarse moan was swallowed up by the buzz of the washing machine which chose that moment to go into spin-dry mode. The vibrations shook through Dean’s body as though every molecule of his skin reacted to the violent throbbing of his cock, and gasping, he spilled thick threads of come all over his fist.  
  
Sam barely had time to appreciate how perfectly this scenario resembled one of Dean’s favorite Casa Erotica episodes before the sight also sent him over the edge.  
  
By the time he regained his bearings, the washing machine had stopped spinning and a comfortable silence reigned in the room.  
  
“Man, that was awesome.” Dean slumped to the ground with a content sigh. He gazed at Sam through half-lidded eyes, looking more relaxed than Sam had seen him ever since he’d been hit with the curse. “You know what, Sammy? Deciding to be attracted to me—Best. Idea. Ever.”  
  
He reached out and wiped his hand on Sam’s brown plaid shirt. Sam was too blissed out from his orgasm and too turned on to care.  
  
***  
  
A week later Sam finally found a cure to the curse in a nondescript journal which, as it turned out, had belonged to none other than the great evil genius Magnus. They celebrated it by putting into practice pretty much every kind of touch known to the gay kama sutra until they fell asleep in each other’s arms.  
  
The next morning Sam woke up alone. A twinge of disappointment flashed through his abdomen. But before it could take hold, Dean waltzed back into the bedroom, nude save for Sam’s dark red SAXX boxer briefs, bearing two mugs of coffee.  
  
Sam’s cheeks flushed in an even darker color than the underwear— _his_ underwear—Dean was wearing, and despite the strenuous exercise of the previous night his dick stirred again in interest.  
  
Dean chuckled as he handed Sam one of the steaming mugs. He perched down on the edge of the bed beside Sam’s hip and leered at his crotch. “Someone’s pleased to see me.”  
  
Sam snorted into his coffee. Trust Dean to roll out the world’s cheesiest pick-up line. Honestly, it was a wonder how he’d ever gotten laid.  
  
(Except for how it wasn’t. Not really.)  
  
He let his eyes wander appreciatively across the dark red fabric where it stretched snugly over the jut of Dean’s hipbones.  
  
“So this really is a kink of yours? Me wearing your clothes?” Dean sounded almost surprised.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “I guess.”  
  
Dean smirked at him and waggled his eyebrows. “Good thing then that I really like wearing your clothes.”


End file.
